Your Fear is Here
by Pepeperfume
Summary: Sequel to Suspense thriller :Nemesis Game


**Fanfiction based on Nemesis Game. Rating MA --Suspense, romance, thriller.**

**Your Fear is Here**

As the second year of his incarceration limped slowly by, Vern was ready for something to happen. He had gotten fifteen years to life, but he could get out on parole in five years—with good behavior, without riddles, and as long as he kept seeing that hot little psychiatrist with the lovely shaped legs, long legs. He smiled briefly. That was always a pleasant way to pass an hour each week, fifty-two times a year for the next three years.

Dr. Beverly Hill. Funny name, but when he pointed that fact out to her she hadn't been amused. Not too many things amused Dr. Hill. She was way too much into analyzing his every thought—at least the ones he surrendered to her. Her diagnosis had been textbook—a "psychotic break with reality" had been the title she had given his crime. The crime of killing Sara Novak.

Pretty, inquisitive Sara. She had captured his interest the first time she had entered his comic book store—looking for thrills—thrills he would have been more than happy to give her. Of course, the games they played—they were only supposed to be the foreplay to the real games he wanted to play with her in bed. But then—wouldn't you know it—"The Design" got in the way. It had actually decided to befriend him, when making friends was not in his plans.

He looked around at the cement walls, the steel bunk fastened to the wall with a thin mattress on top. The table he sat at, the chair he sat in—all fastened to something! Just look at where being friends with "The Design" had gotten him! It hadn't gotten him laid! Oh, shit, no! He had killed his prospective ride in bed—and wasn't that a riddle he'd been trying to solve in his own mind for the last two years?

It all started with Emily Gray who tried to kill little twelve-year-old Dennis Reveni down by the river. Was Emily trying to get laid? Probably not, but she got screwed by "The Design" just as he had. Ah, but then "The Design" told us that everything has meaning or nothing has! Did that bit of nonsense explain why five years after Emily Gray tried to kill him; Dennis Reveni tried to kill Sara Novak? Did it explain why, when the kid failed, "The Design" decided it was his turn to have fifteen minutes of fame?

Vern hated this. The sitting around, with only one hour's exercise allowed him daily. All his life he had enjoyed the outdoors and the sense of freedom that open spaces—even city backstreets—had given him. He missed seeing the blanket of stars overhead at night, the touch of cooling air blowing in off the ocean. And he missed people. He missed his comic book store. He missed feeling human. He was tried of being a caged animal.

He spent his time either pacing restlessly around his cell, or sitting morosely at this steel table with his chin in his hands, staring into space. Occasionally, he would study the rings on his fingers. He wore a pinkie finger ring, a middle finger ring, and a forefinger ring. He no longer remembered where he had gotten them. Perhaps it was at the tattoo shop where he had gotten his ear pierced and the body tattoo done. The tattoo was his way of covering up the scars. The little souvenirs left by the fire that had changed his life forever—maybe Dr. Beverly Hill should analysis that! Of course, killing Sara Novak had changed his life as well—but first things, first.

The prison had a well-stocked library and he forced himself to read. Books he hadn't seen nor thought about since he had attended the university. He remembered a doctor from India whom he had met one afternoon—a gentle, philosophic man who had spoken of an ancient religion he called yoga. The doctor had tried to teach Vern about detachment and the power of the mind. But in those days, he hadn't been quite ready for philosophy or a way of life that withdrew from life itself. Now—he had time, too much time. As he read the books he found himself remembering more and more about what this doctor had tried to teach him.

Strength—that was it. A man's strength comes from within and from the knowledge that he is part of everything that is. There is a potential in all of us that needs to be understood, to be tapped."

Is that what "The Design" did? Did it tap his strength? Was the design a client looking for a hit man to take out a mark? If he were to look back on what he knew, he would have to say yes. The blue card with Nemesis' face upon it was an invitation. Seven years ago when Emily Gray took up the invitation she had not been the only one to receive it. Some people got it in the mail or on the computer. The invitation was even painted on the side of someone's house. And two years ago, when Sara Novak first showed him the Nemesis card Curran had given her, he had known it was starting all over again. He tried to warn Sara, but perhaps it would have been better if he had not explained so much.

If she had not known that the card was an invitation to the game. If he had not explained that all the answers to all the riddles were written on the walls in some abandoned building in the city. He had even explained the rules to her. They were simple. Solve a riddle; put your answer on the wall. Solve enough riddles and one day you are shown "The Design." Having been shown "The Design" the compulsion to be shown the answer becomes all-consuming. Dr. Hill might call it a "psychotic break with reality". Perhaps that was what murder was-- a psychotic break with reality.

Vern didn't get many visitors—and the one he received from Sara's father shortly after being incarcerated here was one he did not wish to repeat. Standard procedure for visiting guests was that they wait in the visitation room for him to be brought to them—he would be all nicely handcuffed and subdued, of course. That was the rules; so today when those rules got broken, Vern found his curiosity spiked.

The guard looked, both, angry and disapproving as he unlocked his cell and held it open so his visitor could enter. A medium-built, rather nondescript-looking man in a dark suit paused upon entering. He studied Vern without seeming to, his gray eyes cool and non-committal.

"All right—you can lock the cell and wait outside."

"Yes, Mr. Niven." The guard replied and did as the man requested.

With a slight, mirthless smile, Niven walked to the table and sat down across from Vern. He had a stack of papers in his hand. Now as Vern watched, he started to leaf through them.

"Well, Vern, I think I have your complete file here, but there are a few questions I'd like to ask—a few gaps you might fill in for me, if you please."

Daniel Niven had, at first glance, impressed Vern as being colorless and ordinary. But by the end of a half-hour Vern had formed a grudging respect for the man, who was not only coldly intelligent, but surprisingly clever and knowledgeable as well. He seemed to know more about Vern than it was possible for anyone to know—and what he did not know, his blunt questions had soon informed him of. Vern was frank with the man—after all, he had nothing to lose, and it had soon become apparent to him that he might have something to gain—it was obvious that Niven had something in mind; he would hardly make a journey here from Surrey, England, or be so interested in Vern's past history if he did not have a purpose for doing so.

All the same, he listened almost unbelievingly when Niven offhandedly offered him a job—of a sort; and then went on to outline its risk and possible disadvantages in his concise, rather pedantic manner.

"You understand, Vern, that technically, at least, you will be branded an escape convict. The prison break is scheduled for tomorrow evening. If you take advantage of the escape route I will leave with you, you will be put on our payroll. No one will remember you were in this cell, or this prison—in all actuality, no one will remember you at all." Niven glanced down at the papers before him for a moment before he looked up again. "You haven't travel outside the United States before. Your first couple assignments will be outside the United States—in France, Germany and the isle of Crete. We will see how good of ear you have for languages."

"You'll be contacted from time to time by—other members of our organization, and given various assignments. Needless to say, all these will carry a considerable amount of risk and danger. But you're not opposed to that, are you?"

Niven's eyes were hooded, for a moment. "If you are ever apprehended, it must be understood that naturally, we'll disclaim all knowledge or responsibility for you or your actions."

He looked inquiringly at Vern, who said a trifle wryly, "Oh—naturally!"

Niven gave one of his thin smiles.

"Good—we're beginning to understand each other."

"What are you? CIA? Interpol?"

Niven shook his head, and it became apparent that he was here to ask the questions—give the order too, and it was up to Vern to decide to answer the questions and obey the orders.

"After you leave here, I will see that you are contacted by—um—one of our more experienced men. He will fill you in about the type of assignment you'll be handling, and what we'll expect."

"I think you need to tell me first," Vern growled, "just who in the fuck you work for!"

Niven shrugged. "Everything has meaning or nothing has." Vern stiffened, then tried to relax but when the man tossed down the blue card with the face of Nemesis on it, he came to his feet, pushing his chair away so violently it bounced off the cement wall behind him.

"Jesus Christ!"

"You played the name. You saw "The Design." Wouldn't you like to stop others from finding the answer that you did?"

Vern stared at him nonplused and Niven's lips twisted into a wry smile. He gathered his papers and walked to the cell door. He called loudly for the guard to come and open the door for him. Vern turned to face him and he said softly, "By the way, Vern—I do believe I forgot to mention it earlier—the bullets they'll be shooting at you when you escape will be real ones. Do try to be careful."

He had at least twelve potential players that he should be watching. The abandoned building in the market district of Barcelona was well covered with surveillance equipment. Each player's work place was covered by at least three cameras. At almost any given time, Vern could call up the location of a player—and if he couldn't get a visual through one of the cameras there was always the GPS tracking bug that was place beneath the battery of their cell phones.

He sighed impatiently and glanced at his watch. And the thought came again. He had at least twelve potential players that he could be watching. Instead all twelve monitors in his little cubby-hole of an apartment were tuned to the seven cameras hidden in _her_ apartment. He drummed his fingers against the desktop. She was late tonight—and he didn't like it.

No—he didn't like this at all! There were more important things for him to do. Anything was more important than what he waited for—and was so impatient to see. Try as he might to pull his attention away or to ignore the buzz of hot excitement in his body, even telling himself to just grab the tape from last night—watch her on that—nothing was going to take the place of seeing her live, in real time on all twelve monitors.

He felt like a junkie needing a fix—and that was what he didn't like.

He growled out a curse at the passing thought, negating it. He didn't need anything and he sure as hell didn't need anyone. Not anymore. He was cool. He was detached. He was Cyber man. All he needed was a pack of smokes and the uplink to the satellite feed that brought him his world of entertainment. It didn't mean anything that tonight that entertainment was going to be _her_!

The motion activated camera in her garage was triggered and an eerie blue glow brightened the monitors. He tried to ignore the way his heart rate spiked. He glanced at his watch. 8:32. She had been at work since 6 A.M. He had watched her on the cameras he had planted at the Designer's Emporium, too, but that was only foreplay for what he knew he was going to see now.

The garage camera followed her to the door, than the second two cameras snapped on when she unlocked the door and headed for the kitchen. She took a glass from the cupboard, grabbed a handful of ice, than filled the glass with tap water. She tilted back her head to drink, exposing her slender, white throat. The camera he had hidden in the microwave clock showed her pale face, her stubborn jaw, and the dark shadows under her emerald green eyes.

He zoomed in on her eyes. He loved them. The straight brows and curling lashes made her expression look secretive, but Vern knew all her secrets. He would have taken her as a pretend redhead if he didn't have damn good reason to know that her reddish curls were absolutely for real. She closed her eyes, blocking the gleam in her green eyes. Her mascara was smudged. She looked exhausted.

There was no purposeful reason for him to continue to monitor her. Hacking into her personal records had told him that she was twenty-eight years old, with good credit. She was one of the many fashion designer assistants to "**JOTA MAS GE**"—but with her beauty and that body, she should have been strutting down the catwalk, not preparing others to do it. She had joined the game quite by accident. The blue Nemesis card had fallen from another player's purse to land at her feet. The riddle on the back was solved within minutes. She had a quick, clever mind. She also had an addictive personality—just like he had. It hadn't taken her long to track down the original owner of the Nemesis card, learn the rules of the game and spray paint her first answer on the filthy wall of the abandoned building in the market section. From then on—she was in the game—and she was his.

Her big, emerald green eyes looked haunted tonight. He studied her magnificent image with disquiet. She looked…..Christ, so sweet, so defenseless. He felt himself wince and his fingers drummed an angry temple on the desktop. Enough! She wasn't going make him feel guilty for watching. He wasn't doing it to harm her—or stalk her—even though as crazy as he had begun to feel this evening when she didn't return home at her usual time could actually be categorized as a stalker trait. Dr. Beverly Hill would have a field day with all the implications.

Vern drew the reins in on his control. He had to stay cool and detached. He was Cyber man. It was a name from a comic book hero. He had always liked those mutant hero types. They were all tormented, depressed and alienated; just like he was. None of them felt sleazy—or at least he didn't think they did. Watching her made him feel sleazy, and yet the sleazier he felt, the more he craved watching her. And he blamed her—she was so fucking beautiful. It was disturbing.

She drifted wearily into the range of the color-cam hidden away in the ceiling fan light of her bedroom. The camera commanded an excellent view of the mirror on the dresser, a detail for which he was extremely grateful. He enlarged the image until it filled the monitors, ignoring a slight pang of guilt. This was his favorite part, and he wasn't going to miss a thing.

She removed her jacket, and tugged off her skirt. He watched her hang the skirt and jacket in her closet. The tail of her blouse trailed along her white cotton panties that were stretched tight across the swell of her round ass. He knew her routine like it was the opening credits of an old television show, and still he hung on every detail. Her artless movements fascinated him. Most of the really attractive women he knew played before a mirror. It was their center stage—but not her, she didn't seem to notice or even care what she looked like at the moment.

She peeled off her hose, and started her inelegant, ingenuous nightly striptease. She fumbled with her cuffs until he wanted to scream at her to get on with it. Then she fussed and picked at the buttons at the throat of the high-colored blouse, gazing into the mirror as if she saw another world entirely.

His breath hissed in between his teeth when she finally shrugged off the blouse. Her plump breasts were restrained by a white underwire bra. This thing was no Victoria Secrets creation. It had plain, wide straps and screamed the word practical. Still, that faintest hint of cleavage that was blatantly displayed before his eyes was the sexiest thing he'd ever seen.

She sniffed at the armpits of the blouse before tossing it into a clothes basket and Vern grinned. It was hard to imagine that beauty breaking a sweat. She didn't do any of the things, either at work, or in her apartment to cause such a thing. Of course, Vern knew he would make her break a sweat if he ever had her spread out naked beneath his moving body, her hips jerking eagerly up to meet his thrusts. He would make that ivory skin flush rose-pink when he flipped her around so that she could ride him long and hard, until her tangled red ringlets clung damply to her check, and her neck. With the right exercise, he would make her soaking wet.

He rearranged his throbbing cock inside his jeans and dragged his hand over his hot face with a groan. He had no business getting anything more than a casual hard on for one of the players. This behavior was stupid and it had to stop. Except that it couldn't stop yet. It was time for her to do that thing with her hair. God, he loved this part.

She tossed pin after pin into a china tray on the dresser and uncoiled the thick red braid from the bun at the nape of her neck. She unraveled the strands, shaking them loose until they ripples past the small of her back. His breath sighed out in a low, audible groan as she reached behind herself and unhooked the bra. His hands tingled as he stared at her breasts. He imagined those pale pink nipples taut, flushed and hard against his fingers, against the palms of his hands, against his feverish face just before he took them into his hungry, suckling mouth.

His heart began to pound as she peeled off the panties, rolling her shoulders, her neck, arching her back. God, he loved watching her. It was obvious she was enjoying the sensual freedom of being naked and alone. Unmasked, she was like strawberries and cream.

The downy puff of springy red curls at her crotch didn't quite hide the shadowy cleft between her shapely thighs. He wanted to press his face against those ringlets, inhale her warm perfumed scent. He would taste her, too. Parting the tender folds, licking and sucking until her legs gave out—but he would hold her there, a prisoner to his mouth, until he had wrung out the last cry of pleasure from her.

He shook off the reoccurring fantasy, because he couldn't miss this part. She bent from the waist and flung her hair over her head, arching her back and running her fingers through the wavy mass. The placement of the camera and mirror guaranteed him a spectacular view of her creamy round ass, and the enticing divide between. The sight was enough to make a grown man—who couldn't have her---cry.

His cell phone began to vibrate in his pocket. Good! A distraction. A reason to turn around in his swivel chair and not watch her torture him any more.

"Hello?"

"Vern. Are you watching player 5? He didn't go home right after work."

"Neither did Player 3," Vern said, and was amazed at how hoarse his voice sounded.

"Is she home now?"

"Yeah."

"Well, player 5 just left the building, man! And I think he knows "the Design.""

Vern spun back around, noticing that the redhead now had clothed herself in a baggy fleece sweat suit and was logging on to her computer. It was ritual with her. She would answer emails for the next hour, than start her exercises. Vern flipped two switches and Player 5 entered the visual on one of his camera.

"Are you gonna need help with him? I can be there in five minutes."

"No," the voice on the other end of the phone said. "I just wanted you to know. I will deal." There was a pause and then, "Are you gonna watch?"

"Yeah—I have your back."

"Good."

The phone went silent and Vern called up the redhead's apartment feed on two other monitors. He could watch player 5, and be entertained by player 3. No problem. He had learned to multitask. He was Cyber man.

Red was curving her spine with catlike grace, hair tumbling voluptuously over her face. Then she reversed the process in a rippling movement until her back was arched, ass raised. Curve, arch. Curve, arch, in a slow, pulsating rhythm, like she was dry humping the floor. It made him dizzy and feel wildly excited.

He cursed at the screen, helpless to look away. He liked to watch because she made him feel alive again. He could tell himself he was cool and detached all he wanted, but with just one look at her, he became intense and involved. He had been doing this work for the last three years—and it was the work that allowed him to forget the fact that he had killed an innocent girl—a beautiful girl—a girl who had the world at her feet. He had sworn to avenge her death by stopping "The Design" from corrupting anymore of its followers. It was the work that allowed him to follow the teachings of yoga so that he was actually able to live life by withdrawing from life.

Red had changed all of that. Every evening she caused a blast of excitement to ricochet threw him, not only pumping him up sexually, but awakening all the basic needs a person had in life—outside of survive. With her as one of the players, the stakes had risen enormously for him. He could not allow Red to end the same way Sara Novak did—or for her to learn the meaning of "The Design" and become a killer like he had.

The Nokia 5500 Sport, with its fancy 2-megapixel camera that had a 4x zoom, which to Vern was more important than the sweet one key switching between phone and the built in MP3 player, lie in the passenger seat of Volkswagen Passat. At the moment it wasn't screaming out tunes from Default, The Calling, The Cure and Bon Jovi by way of its Bluetooth capability. In fact, the Bluetooth earpiece was lying beside it on the seat. What it was doing was buzzing and vibrating. It reminded Vern of a dying fly on a dusty windowsill.

Vern slouched lower in the driver's seat and contemplated it. Normal people were wired to grab the thing, check the number, and respond. In him, those wires were cut at the moment; the program was deleted. He stared at it, stupefied by his own indifference. Of course, if someone who wasn't connected with Nemesis was on the other end of that thing, he'd be on that phone faster than a fly on shit, but he knew it would be Roy, or Raoul. Let it die. Five rings. Six. Seven. Eight. The cell phone persisted, buzzing angrily, and playing that cheesy Nokia tune all the while.

It got to fourteen, and gave up in disgust.

He went back to watching the outside of her apartment building through the rain that trickled over the windshield. The world outside the car was a blurry wash of grays and greens. She was due home any minute. He had checked the lobby of the apartment building, and knew player 5 was not inside lurking about. Where was the son-of-a-bitch?

He had been spotted outside the Designer's Emporium this afternoon. That had alarmed Vern enough to leave his apartment and drive on down there. Three hours of surveillance only proved that player 5 was as confused as he was lost.

Vern knew her day from memory. When Player 5 disappeared about a half hour before she was due to leave work, Vern followed him until Raoul took over the trace. Then he rushed over to her apartment to watch for her return home. At the moment he was warring with a really strong impulse that he knew was all screwed up. He should wait in the car until she drove into the underground parking, then drive home and watch her from a more comfortable view—his swivel chair. But the impulse wanted him to jump out of the car and wait for her in that parking garage. He wanted to see her in real time—all up close and personal.

He wrenched his mind—deviant as it has become because of her—away from the excited images that seduced him into thinking that meeting a player face to face was a good thing and stared at the cell phone again. Naw, it couldn't have been Daniel Niven. He only called to assign players, or congratulate or castrate him, depending on how a case ended. Boredom and something else tricked him into picking up the cell phone to check the number, and as if the goddamn thing had been lying in wait for him, it buzzed right in his hand, making him jump and curse. The caller ID said it was Raoul. Telepathic bastard! "Hello." Vern answered it because he needed to take this.

Vern quickly placed the Bluetooth earpiece in his ear, clicked it on and dropped his cell phone into the pocket of his raincoat as he opened the car door and got out. He crossed the street and saw a blue Volvo entering the remote gates that lead down into the underground parking. It was a perfect way to get inside. He took it.

"I lost him."

"I figured as much—wouldn't be calling me if you had him." Vern reached inside his other coat pocket and extracted a pack of cigarettes. He shook one out, and lit it. "I'm in player 3's parking garage at the moment—and it's clear." He took a drag off the cigarette, his eyes intense. "Are you sure she is the target?"

There was a low, sardonic laugh on the other end of the phone. "What do you think?"

Vern shrugged even though Raoul couldn't see him. What he thought was that Red needed a body guard and while it might just go against Mr. Niven's (S(tandard (O)perating (P)rocedure, Vern was going to see to it. In fact, he was going to insist upon it—and he could hardly wait. But wait he did, in the elevator, listening to elevator music, just outside the elevator so he could have a smoke. Just when he thought he was going to run out of cigarettes, the headlights of her Mercedes told him it was time. He crushed out his cigarette with his boot and stepped back into the elevator, closing the door.

Images, memories of the day had shimmered in Alicia's mind as she maneuvered through the evening traffic, but now as she parked her car and reached for her purse, she thought of the riddle that had been written in lipstick on the mirror in the bathroom at work. Strange place for a riddle. Who could have written it there? She wanted to know because it meant that someone else who played the game worked in her building. Or did it?

"_What is it that is deaf, dumb and blind and always tells the truth?"_

The answer was a mirror, of course. It was too easy—especially since it had been written on a mirror. She had felt uneasy all day, as if something wasn't right, and the feeling of being watched, which she usually told herself was just her imagination, had been way to strong to ignore. It had made her nervous. It still did, which was why she had barely managed a wan smile at Esteban, the parking attendant that always flirted with her.

"**JOTA MAS GE**" was the fashion house to work for, but it could be stressful at times. At the moment, the new spring line was about to be presented. Emotions were running higher than usual, and so was the vicious, spiteful back-biting. Alicia knew there wasn't a chance in hell of making friends with her co-workers. They would never call her Ali as all her online friends did. She sighed, thinking that at least when she did a good job Juana Ruiz was never sparse with her praise. Ali glowed in it until Juana walked away, then she found that her little victory was a shallow thing for she had no one to share it with—no one who truly cared. She met hundreds of people a month. She fawned over, dressed and petted dozens of models, but it all truly was superficial in the end. The models expected such treatment from her—they didn't take it as an offer of friendship, they simply thought she was doing her job!

Ali stabbed the up arrow button near the door and stared critically at her reflection in the cloudy mirrored walls of the closed elevator doors. She'd lost weight. Which made her fit right in with the models—who could find the time to eat at the emporium. She was lucky if she could find the time to pee during the course of a day.

The elevator door opened and she stepped into the mirror-encased box. Mirror. The answer to the riddle. There were mirrors everywhere. Did that mean something? And why did it seem like everywhere they reflected the image of the man standing beside her. The elevator suddenly seemed much smaller than usual. She clutched at her purse strap as a light, tickling awareness rippled across the surface of her skin, like a breeze rustling long grass.

She was careful not to look at him directly, mindful of elevator etiquette, but she gathered considerable information out of the corner of her eye. Tall, at least 1.83 m. Lean. Nicely tanned skin, she noticed, sneaking a furtive glance at the big hands that emerged from the cuffs of his canvas raincoat—Armani, she concluded, peeking at the cut of his sleeves. He looked like that TV character, from a decade ago, Duncan Macleod, only this guy had short hair, and it was bleached or frosted.

He was looking at her. She felt the weight and heat of his gaze against the side of her face. She would have to look straight at him to confirm it. For once, her curiosity was stronger than her need to conform.

Oh, God! Had she really thought he looked like Duncan Macleod after only a quick glance? He could actually be Duncan Macleod! He was classically handsome. His features had perfect symmetry and his mouth was to die for. The hair was definitely frosted, because his eyebrows were thick, and very dark. It was his eyes that shocked her the most. They were dark brown, heavy-lidded and exotic. They made her think of nasty little dirty things…the type of things good girls didn't do to men. And they stared at her with searing intensity—almost as if he had read her mind.

His gaze slid down over her body as if he saw through her prim gray suit, through her blouse, her underwear, right down to the shivering flesh beneath. His appraisal was bold and arrogant, as if he had every right to stare. He could have been a pirate captain that had happened upon a serving wench he wanted to bed for the night…..

Oh, God! Where had that thought come from?

Ali tore her eyes away. Her overactive imagination promptly went crazy with the pirate metaphor, erasing the Armani raincoat and dressing him in pirate's garb; flowing blouse, tight—yes, very tight knee breeches that showcased his . . . his assets, a cutlass thrust into a crimson sash, a golden hoop earring in place of that diamond stud in his ear right now. It was ridiculous, but she felt flushed, panicky. She had to get out of the elevator before the mirrors steamed up.

To her immense relief, the door pinged and opened on the first floor. She lunged to exit, stumbling into the woman who was waiting to enter and murmured an incoherent apology as she rushed to the apartment entrance to check her mail. She heard the elevator doors slid shut and sighed audibly.

Oh God, how pathetic, and how typical. A hot, sexy guy gave her the eye in an elevator, and her thoughts were only of a pirate captain having their way with serving a wench and the Aerosmith song "Love in an Elevator" _Dios!_ She had blown her once in a lifetime chance to be ravished by a pirate look-alike! No wonder her love life was a non-issue. She sabotaged it before it even got going.

She jabbed the key into the lock on her mailbox door and turned it. Inside was a blue card. Her hand closed around it. Another riddle. She pressed her mailbox door closed and spun around. The blue card fluttered to the floor. The man she had just left in the elevator was standing in the hallway entrance, blocking that avenue of escape.

She swallowed hard. Enough is enough. She didn't have the energy to be ravished by a hungry-eyed pirate captain, no matter how sexy or compelling he might be. "Are you lost?" she asked politely. "Can I help you find someone?"

The man's hot gaze was all over her. "Not lost—not anymore." His deep voice brushed tenderly across her nerve endings, like a slow, tingling caress.

"The buttons to buzz the apartments are to your left."

He ignored that bit of information and glided into the small entry way with panther-like grace, bent down and retrieved the blue card. He rose up—seeming to tower over her 1.77 m. He glanced down at the card, than turned it to read the riddle. "You get these often?"

She took the card from him, waiting for him to step back. He wasn't going to move, she realized, seconds later. On the contrary. She groped for her keys, and clutched her purse while her heart thudded wildly. He had asked her a question, but she couldn't remember what it was.

Smile, she urged herself desperately. Grab onto the brass ring; take the bull by the horns, flirt with him! She was a big girl. It was allowed—he probably expected it! But he was so close; his eyes were so hot and hungry. The intensity of his masculine energy paralyzed her. She was speechless, her lungs were locked, unable to inhale or exhale. What a silly ninny!

"I'm sorry if I made you nervous in the elevator." His voice stroked her again, as soft as velvet. "You took me by surprise. I forgot to be polite."

She tried to sidle away, along the wall. "You're still not being polite," she said. "And I'm still nervous."

"Yeah?" He put both hands on wall of the mailboxes, trapping her in a crackling force field of masculine heat. "Well, I'm still surprised."

He leaned towards her. She wondered in a spasm of panic if he was going to kiss her, but he stopped a scant inch from her hair and took a deep breath. "You smell wonderful," he murmured.

She shrank back against the wall of mailboxes. "I would think my morning squirt of perfume long gone by now," she ventured bravely.

He inhaled again and sighed, his warm breath fanning her throat. "It's your other scent. So fresh—sweet and hot. Like a water Lily lying open in the sun."

This couldn't be happening. Sometimes her dream world seemed more substantial than the waking world, and this unspeakably bold, gorgeous man belonged in one of her more improbable dreamscapes; along with dragons, centaurs, Greek gods and Highland warriors. Those were unfathomable things, unbound by mortal laws and limitations, enchanting and very dangerous.

"This is …so not going to happen," she said in a soft, breathless voice. "I don't even know you. Please step back and give me some space."

He retreated with obvious reluctance. "Sorry," he said, sounding anything but apologetic. "I had to do it."

"You had to do—what?"

"Memorize your smell," he said, as if it were obvious.

Ali stared at him, openmouthed, acutely conscious of the way her nipples were rubbing against the fabric of her bra, the slide of the silk against her skin as she breathed air into her lungs. Her face felt hot and her lips felt swollen. Her legs trembled. The look in his eyes pulled at something deep inside her; a verdant, hidden place that budded and bloomed under his gaze, aching with nameless need.

God! She was so turned on. And it was horrifyingly embarrassing to be sexually aroused by a complete stranger. He had not even touched her. This was just a dandy time for her latent, feral woman sexuality to rear its ugly head. There was no time for sex—no time to taste him—she had barely enough time to sleep before her job called her back like a tyrant.

The door chime on the front door clanged loudly as Hernando Dias flung the front door open. He paused in surprise upon seeing Alicia Casas y Sánchez leaning rather limply against the mailboxes, a tall, quite clearly English or American man hovering over her. It startled him. He wasn't sure whether to come to her aid or simply slink pass them. He felt like an intruder and it confused him. He had half believed Alicia to be gay since his every overture towards her in the last year had been met with cool, but polite indifference.

"Holla, Alicia."

Ali took a step forward, and the man hovering over her took a step back at the sound of Hernando's uneasy voice. The stranger gave him a courteous nod. "Are you a friend of Ali's?" The words and tone were polite enough, but the caressing roughness that had characterized his voice was gone. It was clear and flat.

Hernando shrugged, looking as if he was put on the defense. "Just neighbors."

"Good."

There didn't seem to be anything else to say. The man had stepped away from her and now as Hernando's eyes flickered to Alicia, they lingered for an endless three seconds on her hot face. Hernando had always thought she was a beautiful woman, but seeing her like this made him realized just how passionate and sensual she could be. He glanced at the American and thought, lucky bastard!

Alicia stepped away from the mailboxes as if only now realizing that Hernando was waiting for her to move so he could retrieve his mail. She quickly stepped passed the doorway of the entryway and into the hall. She appeared to being waiting—and it took Hernando a minute to realize that she was actually waiting for him, and not the American.

Tension throbbed in the air. The two men regarded each other, smiling identical bland, impenetrable smiles. Surprisingly it was the tall, and darkly brooding stranger who finally shot Alicia one last, fiercely appreciative glance and moved passed Hernando to the door that lead out of the building.

As soon as the door closed behind him, Ali made a wild dash for the elevator. Of course the doors couldn't open right away to allow her to rush in and travel up to the next floor in peace. No, it had to be delayed until Hernando joined her. She saw the open questions in his eyes, along with the rather chevalier raking of his eyes over her unraveled appearance and knew that the encounter he had witnessed between her and the stranger near the mailboxes had gone a long way in warming him up to her again—and this, after all the months of trying to turn him off!

Damn it! And exactly how did the stranger know enough to call her Ali? Ali! And oh, God! The way he said it, like a rumbling growl from deep in his chest. It had given her shivers clear down her back as well as made her palms sweat, her nipples harden—and gee, she might even have to check her panties now, because if she didn't have her period, then he sure had caused her to moisten up down there!

Ali unbutton her suit jacket, noticing that she still held the blue card with the riddle that the stranger had handed back to her in one of her hands. The card was creased and wrinkled from her clutching it. She turned the card around and read the riddle.

_The more you take away from it the larger it becomes? _

Her brows drew together in concentration, but she could hardly think straight. The day had been too grueling and the encounter downstairs with Mr. tall, darkly tanned and handsome had been far to stimulating. She was finding it difficult to calm down. She felt the pulse in her wrist and wasn't surprised at all to feel it racing.

She set the card down on her sofa table and moved into the kitchen to get a tall glass of water with plenty of ice. She frowned at the locked door at the end of her kitchen. Beyond that door was the staircase she usually used to get to and from the parking garage. This morning she had found a flyer pinned under her windshield wipers from the apartment complex's maintenance department. The walls of the enclosed stairway were to be painted today. It was the only reason she had taken the elevator. It was the only reason she had met that stranger.

Was he a resident here at this apartment complex? She rather doubted that since Hernando Dias had not known who he was. He had said that he wasn't lost—but did that mean he had been there to see someone? And if so, why hadn't he gotten out in the parking garage. Why had he gone up to the 1st floor—and followed her to the mailboxes?

He had said she surprised him.

She paused with the glass of water poised just before her lips as she remembered the man's breath against her throat. What was it he had said that had almost made her legs give out? Ah, yes, that her scent reminded him of a water lily lying open in the sun….

She closed her eyes, thinking she wouldn't mind lying open before him in the least. He was prime fantasy material!

Finished with her water, she moved into her bedroom and shrugged out of her suit jacket, then slipped off her skirt. She moved to her closet and hung the garments and closed the door. She couldn't seem to stop thinking about that stranger. She couldn't seem to stop remembering, or feeling that buzz—a lingering arousal. She paused before her dresser and stared searchingly into the mirror, trying to imagine what that stranger saw when he looked at her. Something he wanted, evidently, but she had a hard time imagining what it was. All she saw was the weary droop to her shoulders, the smudged mascara, and the fatigue on her face.

It was stupid and ill-timed to fall into lust now, poised as she was on the very beginning of her career, and the very beginning of the fashion season at "**JOTA MAS GE**". And the stranger—he wasn't even a Spaniard, but from America! For all she knew he was some tourist who would be here today and on a plane back home tomorrow.

Ali unbuttoned her blouse and threw it onto the chair beside the bed. She stared into the mirror as she pulled the pins out of her hair. She really should try not to lose more weight. She was starting to look skinny. Tomorrow she would put more makeup on her under-eye circles, and deepen the blusher. She shook her hair out of the braid, and began to yank off the stretch lace chemise— She stopped. She tugged it back down in place, and thought about the stranger's eyes. Heat rushed up into her face. At the moment there was no need for the blusher.

She smiled a sultry, inviting smile into the mirror. She leaned over and tousled her hair, teasing volume into it with her fingers. She flung it back over her shoulders, letting a few locks tumble across her face. She was sporting the –'I'm in the mood' look. She pouted her lips at herself in the mirror as she pulled up the chemise, wriggling sensuously as she tugged it off. She held it out, let it dangle from her fingertips and drop to the carpet.

Now the pantyhose. They were all wrong. If the stranger was here, waiting for her to get naked and come to him, it would be better to be wearing thigh-high gartered hose, so she could sit on the edge of a chair, unclasp her stockings and slide them slowly down over her thighs while he watched, his eyes just as hot as they had been down in the small entry way by the mailboxes.

Ugh, these pantyhose. She had to bend over and peel them off, trying not to trip as she tugged them off her ankles. Probably a more experienced woman could make that look sexy, but not her. She looked with disgust at her bra, deciding that perhaps she needed to invest in some nice lingerie—the stuff that was strutted down the catwalk at "**JOTA MAS GE**" would be nice. She undid her bra and allowed it to drop to the floor. Better. Naked was better.

She cupped her breasts in the mirror, imagining the stranger behind her, those large hands sliding over her belly, and then cradling her breasts, feeling their softness and weight. She imagined the heat of his breath against her throat, the rasp of his beard stubble as he kissed and tongued her neck and shoulder. Then poof, he was in front of her, bending over her chest, his tongue plunging between her breasts, licking the deep, shadowy cleft.

It was so vivid. This flight of the imagination unrolled behind her closed eyes with an almost colored and audible clarity. She could actually hear his growl of appreciative pleasure. She could feel the heat and suckling wetness of his mouth as he kissed and licked her, his tongue swirling and exploring. His mouth fastened over her nipple, no longer pale pink, but flushed to deep raspberry, and hard. She wondered what type of lover he was; slow and languorous, or passionate and urgent. She wondered if he would do to her any of those things she had only read about in romance novels. Hopefully he wouldn't be as inapt as some of her other lovers had been—if he was, it would be enough to send her straight into therapy!

She pushed her panties off, letting them fall to her ankles. Her hand slid between her thighs as the fantasy rushed on, unstoppable. He was sinking to his knees in front of her now, nuzzling her navel, pressing his face against her mound; breathing in her scent—just like he had breathed it in downstairs. She felt hot and sweet—and just like the water lily he had spoken of to her. His words and the way he said them echoed in her mind, making her sigh with longing.

She touched herself, following her dream lover's inclination: his hands teasing, insinuating themselves into the humid folds of her slick, hot female flesh; circling his tongue around the stiff, engorged bud of her clitoris. Her eyes popped open in surprise. Usually her fantasies were rose-tinted and tenderly indistinct, but this one was urgent and hungry and the dreamscape was explicitly detailed. It had a will of its own, and she followed it, willingly, longingly. She was hungry for it! It amazed her that the encounter with that stranger could have affected her so, but even thought she stared at herself in the mirror with frightened eyes, she was not going to ignore this whimsy.

She kicked off her panties and walked carefully on rubbery legs to the bed. There was such a restless ache between her thighs—a whimpering frustrating need that pulsated through her body, making her limbs feel heavy and her skin feel hot. She fell back against the pillows and writhed there in the velvety softness of the coverlet, rubbing her sensitized skin eagerly against the caressing nap of the soft fabric.

Her legs fell open, and her fingers slid eagerly into the moisture between her legs. She saw him mounting her, felt the heat, the weight of his hard, powerful body pinning her down. She imagined him entering her with one swift lunge, and then the glorious friction as he slid slowly in and out of her. She was clutching his shoulders and clinging to him as he thrust deeper—harder, his steely arms holding her tightly, those dark brown eyes gazing into hers…

Ah, it was the eyes. They pushed her over the edge. She arched on the bed with a sharp cry, and came, and endless, shivering cascade of sensation, more intense than any orgasm she could remember. Spent and trembling with reaction, she tugged the coverlet across her limp body and slid into an exhausted sleep.

The rap on his apartment door was loud, and he jerked in his chair as if he'd received an electric shock. That would be Raoul. He glanced at the enhanced image on the monitor directly in front of him and was grateful as all hell for dumb luck. Raoul could have just as easily met him outside his door an hour ago, and if that had happened he either would have missed that little sex show, or had to share it with Raoul. And Vern wasn't in the mood to share. He had been so stunned by was happening on the monitor, he had forgotten to press the record button—which meant all that lovely entertainment was going to have to be remembered the old fashion way.

Of course, Vern was quite sure he wasn't about to ever forget it. She'd been sleeping now for almost a half hour. And he had been unable to tear his eyes away from the monitor until the rap at the door had broken his concentration. If he hadn't personally installed all the camera equipment, if he hadn't had reason to be almost positive that she was unaware of his surveillance, he would've concluded that the whole scene had been staged deliberately for him. Why else would she perform in front of the camera in a way precisely guaranteed to drive him out of his fucking mind?

The rap sounded once more against the door panel. It was louder, angrier—and his response was just as indifferent as it had been earlier this evening when his cell phone had buzzed and rang. People needed to learn the correct time to call him—and come to see him. Right this damn minute was not the right time. However, he just knew it was Raoul—and perhaps a conversation with him might help him clear his head, cool off—

Christ! He needed a cold shower about now.

He flipped off the camera feed to Ali's apartment and pressed the feed buttons for player 9. Nothing much ever happened of interest in player 9's apartment—unless you enjoyed watching someone play x-box 360 all evening long. It could be interesting when the fellah lost his temper because he didn't have the skill to move on to the next level in whatever game he was playing—controllers sometimes flew—one time he even broke his patio door by flinging the game case at it so hard it cracked the glass.

He stood abruptly and moved to the door. Raoul gave him a nasty look when he shoved on passed him. Vern closed the door and turned to find Raoul looking about the living room in disgust. "Furniture is to be sat on, not used to hold your laundry!"

Vern grinned good-naturedly, and scooped up the stack of jeans he had setting on one end of the sofa. So he had been busy! Sue him. "Sit."

"You're sure in a mood!" Raoul indicated the tray with two coffee cups. "I brought you some coffee, but I'm thinking now that maybe you shouldn't drink it."

Vern reached for the coffee cup and sat down in the place he had cleared on the sofa. "You're welcome," Raoul said wryly, "Next time I'll bring chamomile tea—and a Xanax."

"Don't do me any favors."

"Okay—I won't do you any favors." Raoul moved to the monitors and played around with the feed buttons. On six of the monitors the images from the camera's covering player 5 came into view. The other six monitors displayed Player 3's apartment. And there, big as life, lay Ali, sound asleep—and damn if she hadn't kicked away the coverlet. She was naked—exposed— and it was all Vern could do to stop himself from jumping up to stand in front of the monitor so he could protect her privacy!

God, he was loosing it.

Raoul continued to peer into the monitors, and Vern's suspicion that he was watching Ali was confirmed when he said, "Well, if it isn't Dreamsolot Barbie. And it looks like Barbie is a natural born redhead!"

"Mind your own damn business," Vern snapped.

"So she's sleeping." Raoul commented, unfazed by the underlining threat beneath Vern's velvety words. Actually, this was become rather amusing for him. It was fun finding people's buttons and pushing them. Of course, it was all fun and games— running with a scissors until you fell on it—Raoul always paid particular attention to whose buttons he pushed. He hit the zoom option on the camera in her living room and it zeroed in on the blue card setting on the sofa table. "Have you any idea what riddle is on that?"

"Yeah—actually I do because I held it in my hand."

Raoul turned sharply and gave him a hard look. "You got that close?" Then not giving Vern a chance to reply, he added, "Hey, man, you never get that close."

"It couldn't be helped—I told you I was in the parking garage." Vern shrugged and took a swig of coffee. The stuff was black—and hot. "Well, she pulled in with her car, I ducked into the elevator, and she followed."

"How'd you handle it?"

"She needs protection—that son-of-a-bitch has her marked."

Raoul turned away from the monitors. "Yeah—and so how did you handle it? Or more to the point, how do you think we should handle—this protection?"

"I guess first we have to decide whether the riddles she is getting now are ones designed to set her up as the target, or cause her to join player 5."

Raoul moved to an arm chair stacked with folded shirts and took a seat—this after tossing the shirt onto the carpeted floor. Vern gave an angry protest as he did it, but Raoul ignored him. Unwelcoming bastard; were all Canadians such a pains in the ass? Funny thing was, for all Vern's quiet retrospect, for all his rudeness at the best of times, he kind of grew on a person. The man had a big heart—it was just buried under miles and miles of attitude.

"We need an inside man—I think it would work."

"I thought of that."

"A man would have to be able to protect her as well as destroy her if necessary," Raoul countered. "Perhaps I should do it." The look on Vern's face said—"when hell freezes over". Raoul decided to get serious—no more button pushing. "You might not be able to stop from becoming caught up in the game again? We still are not at all sure what triggered the Nemesis effect—did you guess the riddle?"

"Yeah—easy stuff."

"So what was it?"

"_The more you take away from it the larger it becomes?"_

"Player 5 scribbled a riddle in the bathroom of the Designer's Emporium today while he was there."

"Maybe she doesn't have the answers."

"Do you really believe that?" Raoul asked, and took a long drink of his coffee.

"She was never intended for the game," Vern commented and realized the truth of that as he spoke it. "Remember that the card fell by accident at her feet. We all know that "The Design" never does anything at random. It is all planned before executed.

Raoul became thoughtful. "So you are saying you think player 5 has targeted her because she stumbled upon the game?"

"It's possible."

"Is that what happened to Sara Novak?"

Raoul didn't always do what he thought he should. Sara Novak was the biggest button of all to push around Vern. Nobody, with the exception of Daniel Niven, ever dared to mention the woman "the Design" had made him kill. Raoul really didn't know why he had mentioned it now. Perhaps it was because if Vern was going to do this thing, Raoul wanted to make sure he wasn't going to go off half-cocked or worse yet, not at all. Player 3 could very easily be turned into a killer by the Nemesis effect, and if that was the case, Vern needed to stop her—and stopping her might just mean killing another woman.

Vern remained calm, surprising Raoul. "Curran gave Sara the first Nemesis card. Nothing was random."

"And yet Curran was a target—you found him dead--hanging in that building in Toronto. Targets are not supposed to be handing out riddles. That is only done by other players in the game."

Vern shrugged. "And we know all of this because…."

Raoul laughed softly at Vern's sarcasm. It really was one of the more endearing things about him. "What if targets are people who do not belong in the game? Perhaps Dennis Reveni came across the riddles by accident—not intentionally as "The Design" intended. In steps Emily Gray, "The Design's way of taking care of the problem."

"So if I'm following you—then you are suggesting that Curran also stumble across a blue card." Vern shook out a cigarette from the pack setting on an end table and lit it before continuing, "Riddles were my thing. It was a little something on the side I did with some of the customers who came into my comic book store. It was innocent enough. If Curran knew Sara frequented my store, he knew that Sara liked to play games, and was one strange puppy."

"So you don't think anyone ever explained to him what the blue card meant?"

"I don't think he was ever in that abandoned building in Toronto until the night "the Design" sent Emily Gray to kill him there."

"So when he gave Sara that card—he had not seen the writing on the floor that explained the rules of the game. He simply gave it to Sara because he knew she liked riddles."

Vern rubbed the back of his neck thoughtfully before replying. ". . . And because he wanted to get in her pants—and he thought I was already in them. It was more mind games for him. I am sure he didn't know what the blue card meant. He just saw that a riddle was on the back of it and thought he could get Sara to come out to play." He paused to take a deep breath, "He knew about the games we played after hours—it was his way of saying, either play with me, or I tell the world your little secret."

"And were you her little secret?"

Vern grinned. "It never happened, man!"

Raoul rolled his eyes, "You said she was strange—maybe you two were a match made in heaven?

"Let's not go there—all right?"

Raoul agreed. It was probably better if they didn't dig too deeply into Vern's past. He had seen the tattoo on his back—and the scars that couldn't quite be hidden beneath the ink. There was some pain in this man's past. Not only physical—but emotional—and it was that pain that had not healed. There wasn't a tattoo to hide it under—just his silence.

"I think I know what made them targets." Raoul said as if coming up with that answer while speaking. "What if you become a target when you join "The Design" without an invitation?"

"Are you suggesting that I was invited?" Vern asked and came to his feet. He stubbed out his cigarette in an ashtray and began to pace. The stack of shirts Raoul had tossed to the floor got in his way, so he scooped them up and took them into his bedroom to put away. Raoul stayed where he was. He had been working with Vern on enough cases to know when the man was in a thinking mood—

Vern didn't want to remember viewing that tape with Sara. The one where Emily Gray said, "_When he looks in the mirror he knows, I never sinned_." It had been his calling card—the thing that had set him onto the same path Emily Gray had taken. He had replaced her as "The Designs" assassin—and hadn't even realized it fully until he had found himself looking down at Sara Novak's dead body. Everyone was considered a player until they had been studied long enough to determine whether they were target or assassin.

Was it possible to be both? After all this time, was it really possible that he now found himself back in the game? Vern wasn't sure. He did know there was a method to "The Designs" madness. It wasn't complicated. Everything means something or it means nothing at all. That was the real truth behind "the Design." And if you could not deviate from that course, then even if Dennis, Curran, and Sara had not been invited to join the game by "The Design", by being inadvertently lured into it, they had actually become part of it. And if that was the case—Raoul was probably right. Their role was as targets.

"Did you say you held the Nemesis card that belonged to player 3 in your hand?" Raoul asked when Vern emerged from his bedroom. Vern reached for his cold coffee and nodded.

"Yeah. It had fallen to the floor and I picked it up for her. I took a look at it before I handed it back to her."

"And you said you knew the answer?"

Vern rubbed the back of his neck, wishing he'd get to the point. "Of course. I told you it was easy. A kid's riddle. The answer was _"A hole."_

"She didn't _give_ you the card?"

All of a sudden Vern knew exactly what Raoul was getting at, and he sat down hard on the seat of the stool near the counter that separated his kitchen from his living area.. Raoul nodded as if he knew what was going through his mind. Was he back in the game—again—because he had picked up that card? Was he going to become the target and not the attacker this time?

"Hey, man, there isn't anyway to keep you both safer than to have you two sticking together like glue," Raoul gave him his best shit-eating grin. He nodded toward the monitor that displayed Ali, all rolled up in the coverlet again, and said, "Wouldn't you rather touch her than watch her?"

Did a bear shit in the woods? Did the swallows return to San Juan Capistrano every spring? Of course, he wanted to touch her. In fact, he actually wanted to spend time just talking to her, listening to her, just being with her. He had it bad—and he didn't understand why. He just knew he wouldn't mind trying to reach out and touch someone—if that someone was Alicia Casas y Sánchez.

Besides the six cameras Vern had set up in Ali's apartment, was yet another camera. An extra he hadn't known exactly what to do with, so he had placed it outside near the heated Jacuzzi and apartment pool. He rarely if ever called up the feed for it, but lately, Ali had not been following her regular routine. He still got to watch the clumsy striptease shows—but there were no repeats on that enjoyable sex show. She rarely if ever logged onto her computer anymore. In fact, after changing her clothing she would either go out to sit in the chairs near the apartment pool or go out for a long drive. Vern could watch her when she was near the pool, but when she left in her car, he had to follow by jumping into his Passat, and using his GPS tracker to find her.

She liked parks—parks in the dark. Vern had used her very first visit to a park in the dark to reintroduce himself to her. It had been relatively easy. He simply pulled his vehicle up along side her parked Mercedes and waited for her to return from her walk.

Little did Vern know, but Ali had been looking for him everywhere—in every face she'd meet, in every tall, board-shouldered man she saw walking in front of her. She couldn't quite forget him—or how aroused and alive he had made her feel. Just a few minutes—a blink of an eye in a lifetime—but their encounter had changed her. So when she came around the bend in the path in the park and saw the silhouette of a man leading against a vehicle parked beside hers, she recognized him almost immediately.

The filter of a glowing cigarette was pinched between his thumb and forefinger. He sank into a crouch as she paused before him and stubbed it out. His face was in the shadows, but some moonlight lit across it, almost taking her breath away. He straightened up, looming over her. She had not forgotten how tall he was and her over-responsive imagination no longer pictured him as a pirate. He was now a Celtic Warlord who was about to head off into battle—he stood watching over her because she belonged to him. It was funny how fantasy could sometimes be so far removed from reality. Protective, possessive men were not her thing—and yet, in her fantasies about this man, he was all of that and more.

His frosted hair was wind tossed by the soft night breeze. His dark brown eyes washed all the way down her lithe frame, and then slowly back up. She didn't know what made her continue to compare him to a Celtic warlord, but the imagery just fell into place. She pictured the setting, and they were there. He was waiting beside his trusted warhorse for her to come to him so he could sweep her into his arms. He only wanted one last kiss before he faced possible death! All he needed was a bronze helm, a torque of twisted gold around his neck, chain mail—except that most Iron Age Celtic warriors had disdained armor to show their contempt for danger. They had run naked into battle, proud of the strength of their bodies, screaming a bold challenge into the faces of their enemies.

_Oh, please. Back off, Ali—don't go there._

She had not wanted that image in her head, but it was too late. She was already picturing this man's big, hard, sinewy body. Stark naked. Embarrassed suddenly, her eyes dropped. She focused on the cigarette butts that littered the ground beside his battered boots. There were three of them.

She glanced up. "Were you waiting for me?"

His face changed. "I didn't think I should follow you."

She couldn't keep the sarcasm out of her voice. "Oh, please. I'm not that scary."

His lips twitched. "Actually, you are, lady."

"I'm glad I have that effect on somebody, because the rest of the world doesn't seem too impressed with me these days."

"Oh, I'm impressed! I'm very impressed."

His eyes were so intense. Brown eyes were always warm, but his gave off such a consuming heat. It scorched her face, made her want to babble instead of talk straight. It also made something clench up low, hot and tight in her body. She wrapped her arms around herself as a defense against the unknown.

He noticed, of course. Nothing seemed to escape those eyes. "Are you OK, Ali?"

Wind gusted around them, setting his long canvas coat flapping around his knees. She shivered and clutched her thin cotton sweater tightly around her. No one had asked that question in such a long time, she'd forgotten how to answer it. And perhaps it was best if she didn't.

"Is that what you waited three cigarettes beside my car to ask?

A quick, hard shake of his head was the answer.

"So… what, then?"

"The other thing can wait—you're looking scared again."

She looked down, away, around, anywhere else, but his gaze was like a magnet, pulling her eyes back and dragging the truth right out of her. It was then that she remembered that he was not who she was afraid of—it was herself, and if she was going to allow herself to be used and hurt again. She had to stop prejudging every man she met, every potential relationship, for if she did not, she would continue to live alone, be alone, and have nobody to ask her if she was ok.

"I am fine," she told him softly, than involuntarily clenching her arms still, she forged ahead in a clumsy but persistent attempt at seducing him. After all, she hadn't just spent the last week searching for him, not to take advantage of this situation. She just needed to push the fear away—she wanted to reach out to him. What was the worse that could happen?

"What is your name?"

"Vern."

Oh, those sexy grooves in the sides of his face when he smiled set something off in her that was hot, soft and stupid. But he probably knew he had this effect on women—and she didn't mind that so much—as long as he wasn't looking for a fly-by-night romance with her. She refused to wake up in the morning with memories from the night before that had to be pushed away and forgotten. He could have her, if he answered just one question right.

"Are you due back on a plane for America anytime soon?"

"America?" he asked, surprise deepening his voice. "I'm a Canadian resident--while admittedly on the same continent, the two countries are not the same."

"Are you _leaving?_"

His eyes narrowed in on her, and he reached out a hand, allowing the side of his thumb to brush carefully along her jaw in a caress that was both gentle and in some way possessive as well. It was a minuscule touch, but even after his hand fell away Ali could feel that tender brush.

"I'll not leave you," he promised, and Ali believed him. "I do need to talk to you. Can I follow you home to your place and come up?"

The thought of his potent male presence filling her dingy little apartment sent shivers down her spine. She backed up, and bumped into the front fender of her car. "I'm, uh, not on my way home. I have some place I need to go."

"You know the answers, don't you?" Vern asked, adding softly, "You're a smart girl."

"The answers to . . . what?"

She frowned. Why was she always asking him what he meant? Why was he almost as fascinating as those blue cards with the riddles? Somehow or other she felt the message on the bathroom mirror at work had something to do with this man. The answer had been a mirror, and his reflection in the mirrored walls of the elevator had been the first time she had seen him.

"_Find Romeo's girl and find the word for your fear to be here."_

"You know the riddle?"

"The answer is different for each of us."

"And either everything has meaning, or nothing does." Ali gasped and turned away, unable to bear his burning scrutiny a minute longer. How had he known the riddle that was on the blue card she had received two days ago? Ever since she had received the card she had felt an almost overwhelming urge to go to the abandoned building in the market section of town—to write the answers to the last three riddles she had found on the wall.

A mirror.

A hole.

The last riddle—the one Vern had just repeated in that husky, deep voice of his was a pinnacle point for her. Romeo's Girl had been a Gentleman's Club in the market district of Barcelona. It had only operated for a scant two years. It had closed because a man had been gunned down by one of the girl's who were paid to strip there. After she killed the man, she had confessed—and she had said, "It's all part of "The Design."

Ali had forgotten all about it: the speculations, the talk of the girl being crazy, until she had received the card, saw the words Romeo's Girl—and connected what the stripper had said with what she had read on the floor of that old abandoned building. Perhaps the stripper really wasn't crazy—perhaps she was compelled.

This last week Ali had been fighting an urge that demanded she rush to that abandoned building and read the words on the floor again. She felt she needed to make sure she was right in that it promised to reveal "The Design" to those who sought the ultimate enigmas in life. The riddle, "_Find Romeo's girl and find the word for your fear here," _frightened her because of what it might reveal. Something inside her told her to stay away from that abandoned building. It told her not to go and search each and every wall until she found the word for her fear. She knew what it was—but did "the Design"?

"Ali." Vern's arms closed around her from behind. "Listen to me."

His solid heat pressed up against her body and nudged her shaky nerves toward what felt like panic. "Vern, it's too real! I feel this drive—this need. . . Don't you want to know the answers?"

"We already know the answers, Ali." His arms tightened around her. "They are inside of us."

"But "The Design"—" A cloud of black spots danced in front of her eyes. She sagged and was grateful for his strong arms, holding her upright. Her fingers moved to grasp his forearms, digging in. Her head felt like it was spinning.

He pulled her backward and she heard the sound of his car door opening. "Sit down in the seat. Put your head down. When was the last time you ate?" He crouched beside her and rested his arm around her shoulder. His touch was light—almost careful, but the contact reverberated through her entire body.

"I hate to scare you," he said gently. "And it seems every time we meet I fail."

"No—it isn't you."

"It's the game," Vern agreed and pushed a red strand of hair that had fallen across her face away to rest behind her small, shell shaped hear. "You need to be warned …" He sounded as if he was stating something too obvious to put into words.

"No—no I don't," she told him. "What I need is to go home."

He rose up from his crouch and stepped back. She followed him, closing the passenger door behind him. She laid a hand against his broad chest, fighting a different longing she had inside of her, then yanked it back, shocked by her sudden weakness and an almost overpowering need to be held and comforted. He offered it without saying a word. All she had to do is tell him he could follow her back to her apartment and come inside. One word of desire from her and his warm, hard body could be hers.

He simply watched her with those penetrating brown eyes, not stopping her in any way when she moved away from him, around the front of her car to the driver's door. She opened it and paused, looking over at him.

"Can I take a rain check?"

"As long as you are going right home," he warned.

She nodded. "No abandoned buildings," she agreed wearily.

She slid down into the seat, put on her seatbelt and closed the door. Vern had entered his own car. Their engines started up together, headlights coming on one after the other. She pulled out of the parking stall and moved down the road, and Vern followed her—never deviating from her course until she turned into the gated under ground parking for her apartment complex. Vern's vehicle continued to move down the road.

She gave out a little disappointed sigh. Sadly, she didn't know what she wanted anymore. And then just as quickly the thought came, 'that isn't true.' She did know what she wanted. She wanted a relationship, a romantic relationship with _that_ man! Her fear—the one she was so sure would be written across the wall of the deserted building could be summed up in one word.

Rejection.

In the days that followed, it appeared that Ali had taken his advice. She never approached the market section of Barcelona. She would go to work, come home, and change her clothes. She would sit near the pool on occasion, but most evenings she drove to the park and walked up and down the various paths. Vern knew it was on these nights that the call to go to the building was the strongest in her. He would follow her, wondering at the protective feelings she inspired in him. The last people he had felt his protective toward had been his fellow construction workers, and they still haunted his dreams with their screams and accusing faces.

Player 9, the video game junkie, not player 5, the one Vern had thought to be a threat to Ali had managed to get himself hired on the transportation team at the Design Emporium. Vern nearly gave up his cover completely upon seeing that non-descriptive little worm wearing a security earpiece, and standing near the line of limousines. Thank God, Raoul was with him at the time. It just wasn't cool to go off half-cocked in front of your partner.

"That sneaky son-of-a-bitch," Raoul said with an admiring whistle. Vern gave him a dirty look, which only made him laugh aloud. "You should have been monitoring player 9 as thoroughly as you do Barbie in her Dream house . . ."

"Fuck you," Vern said, through his teeth. "You sit and watch that little louse play Death Race 2006 for eight damn hours! It seemed pointless. And I can't watch **JOTA MAS GE in real time. It is 40 kilometers away. The audio from the cameras there, I can hear all fucking day, but the video needs a power booster. I don't have a portable power source that can transmit the video that distance for more than a half hour at a time. Besides, the cameras are located in Ali's work area—not outside the building. If I want to know what is happening there, I have to go there in person, gather data, bring it back and process it."**

**"Ali? Not player 3?" Raoul clucked his tongue. "Rather defensive, aren't you?"**

"Like I said before, Raoul—"

"Yeah, yeah. Fuck me. I heard you the first time.

"Well it's not like we are the CIA or Interpol…we can't call up spy satellite to get our imagery. We can only rely on what we planted and the two rather ineffective satellites that we do own that circles the planet! Right now one is over Budapest and the other one is over Hawaii."

"While you watch the world through your eerie blue monitors I have other means of gathering information. And if what my source told me is right—you had better make your moves quickly."

"I'm a big boy—some people have even referred to me as a man," Vern growled. Raoul eyed the overflowing ashtray Vern had just snubbed out his cigarette in and finally reached for it. Walking around the counter to the trash bin, he emptied it, than returned it to the counter.

"Those things will kill you, you know! Especially if you're going to smoke them like that."

"Don't be an asshole."

Raoul made a snorting sound that could have been a short laugh. "Alright. You know the restaurant—Biblioteca, located at Junta de Comerç 28? Why do you think Player 9 made reservations for two?"

"Do tell me all-powerful, and knowing OZ."

"Smart-ass," Raoul grumbled. "He told a few of the men on the transportation crew that he was taking the pretty redhead that worked for Juana Ruiz there."

"No way." Vern was incredulous. "She'd never go out with a sewer rat like him."

Raoul simply shrugged and watched him. It didn't take long for Vern to realize that if player 9 planned to kill player 3, he wouldn't be running around bragging about taking her out. "I need to go over player 5's tapes from last week."

"You mean the night you were with walk in the park Barbie?"

"Are you leaving soon?" Vern asked rudely, and moved over to his work area. He pulled out a large drawer that held DVD cases, each marked with a player and a date. He pulled the one for player 5 and used the cue feature on the DVD recorder to search through the data. The DVD recorder was capable of recording **1280 hours of time lapse footage. This might just take all night.**

**"The dinner reservation is for next week."**

**"It's not going to happen."**

**Raoul shrugged and moved to the door. It usually took something short of an act of God to get Vern motivated enough to show the energy Raoul was watching him demonstrate right now. "I'll get with Roy—we will cover player 9 and 5."**

**Vern never turned away from the six different images moving across his monitors. "I think we both know what I'm going to see here. For whatever reason Player 5 is using Player 9—and he's letting him."**

**"You need to be player 3's boyfriend."**

**"Now, that _will_ happen." Vern said with firm confidence. Raoul shrugged and moved to the door. His friend, Vern, had a week. He had wasted about two weeks just following her about—actually only making contact once. Was a week going be enough for Vern to gain this woman's trust? It was a definite now; especially with two players collaborating. Player 3 had been targeted by "The Design."**

The gift boxes started showing up near her workstation the next day. Inside the silver or gold foil that covered the boxes she would find a sealed DVD movie and a small bottle of vintage wine. The DVD movies were not current blockbusters, but old Alfred Hitchcock movies. On Monday, she received "Stranger on a Train" with fine Spanish Rioja Red Wine. On Tuesday, she found "Rear Window" in the box and a small bottle of Cabernet from the wine house of Marquis Philip. Wednesday was "Suspicion" and a bottle of Bruno Giacosa, a Fine Italian table wine; and finally Thursday saw a silver foil box containing "Vertigo" and a bottle of Beausejour Daffau, a very fine Red Bordeaux.

Ali enjoyed the movies thoroughly, but she limited herself to no more than a single glass from each of the wines. She had never watched an Alfred Hitchcock movie before, but found the ones Vern had sent her intriguing. She knew Vern had sent them. Inside each box was a textured card with an elegantly embossed V on it. Perhaps just such a card was not reason enough to believe that Vern was the bearer of these gifts, and his rough and ready exterior sure didn't lend credibility to that conviction, but somewhere deep down inside Ali knew.

She knew and she waited. And she walked in the darken park at night, listening for his footsteps. She came around the bend in the path and hoped to see his silhouette again standing near her car. On Friday, she decided that she had run her nerves through the ringer enough—she would not go out to the park and be disappointed again when he didn't come. Surprisingly, today she had received no special package. There were no movie to watch, but there was plenty of wine to drink. Reaching inside her refrigerator, her fingers closed around the long neck bottle of Bruno Giacosa. She snatched up two wine goblets, just in case he came, and went down to the pool to enjoy the serenity of the night and the soft lapping and bubbling sound that the pool and Jacuzzi made.

In his apartment, eyes glued to the monitor that showed the camera feed from the pool and Jacuzzi of her apartment complex, Vern smiled. The wine, in her one hand, the two goblets, in the other—she was ready. And then again, if she wasn't, he was—for the temptation to talk with her had been almost overwhelming these last four days. It was way too intense tonight to postpone it any longer. He flipped off the camera feeds to the monitors and reached for his pack of cigarettes and keys. Her apartment was a five-minute walk from his. She usually stayed at the pool for at least an hour. He had time to catch her.

Ali felt him before she saw him, as she had in the elevator and the entry hall to her apartment complex, and the darkness just outside the warm glow of the pool light intensified the shivering rush of sexual anticipation inside her. Memories of two week's ago when her unhinged sexual fantasies had soared into overdrive because of him, spun rampant in her mind. There was no sun, but her emotions were lying just as opening as any Water Lilly's petals in the sun.

A tall, dark figure moved toward her and coalesced into Vern, casually dressed in black faded jeans, a loose T-shirt, and those scuffed leather boots. He was close enough now so she could see the beard shadow on his angular face. His eyes never flickered over her; they always burned directly, making it nearly impossible to mistake his interest.

"Hello, Vern," she called out to him, and came to her feet. She really needed to act on these fantasies in her head—if she didn't, one of these times she was going to attach herself to the front of him like a terrified cat, only it wasn't going to be terror she would be feeling. And he would think she was loco! The time had come to face her fear—better to face it here then in that abandoned building.

"Ali." Ah, that voice of his, so deep, with that underling caress that made her insides melt. He was a world full of steel and stone. But he wasn't hard—not really. Ali had seen that those eyes of his could be so sad at time, so expressive. Some inbred female instinct from eons ago told her that his blister and sarcasm was all just a front—his hidden shield of protection. She needed to prove to him that he didn't need to protect himself from her.

"Do you want to take a dip in the Jacuzzi with me?" she asked on impulse and quickly reached for the bottom of her shirt, slipping the garment over her head. She wouldn't give him a chance to forestall her. Her finger quickly unzipped her shorts, and as they slipped down to hit the marble tiling, she moved to the handrail near the steps.

Vern had stopped in startled surprise. Now this he had not expected. It was one thing to watch her do her striptease on the monitor in his apartment, and entirely another thing to see her do it live. She had gone shopping last week—lingerie shopping. It had certainly added a little spice to her nightly routine. Silky white panties, with eyelid lace that had an emerald ribbon running through it hugged her round bottom, and the matching bra was cut low, made to boost her breasts up and together.

She had stepped into the steaming water, dropped completely under it for a second before coming bouncing upward. The water soaked silk was even more arousing than if she had been naked. Still too stunned to believe his good fortune, Vern saw her eyes stare up at him with a remarkable air of innocence. The tinge of red in her cheeks was a nice, realistic touch, Vern thought. But was she really blushing or was it the heat from the bubbling pool?

She moved backwards slowly until her back touched the rounded walls of the Jacuzzi. She spread her arms out and rested them on the pool's edge. Her large green eyes had never broken away from his hot gaze, but now, suddenly, her lower lip was caught up between her teeth. She was beginning to look bewildered.

It was that innocent maiden act that got through to Vern. He moved quickly to the chair beside the one she had been sitting in and sat down to pull off his boots, then his socks. He jerked his T-shirt over his head as he came to his feet and moved to shuck his jeans. In just his jockey shorts, his aching hard on was not anything he could hid, nor was he even embarrassed by it as he put his foot on the first descending step and entered the pool. The scars that were almost completely concealed by the tattoo of fire on a portion of his back and left side were another matter. Would she cringe from them? Some women did.

He was careful to stay across from her, his back to the wall, but lascivious possibilities presented themselves to him, one after another. There were lots of dark, secluded corners in this pool area. He knew exactly what the range was on the video surveillance camera, and if he was to lift her out of this water and pin her up against that far wall, rip off those see-through panties and drive his aching flesh deep into her hot slick depths, good old Raoul wouldn't be able to watch. He closed his eyes briefly and pictured her clinging to him, her thighs clasped around his waist, cries of delight jerking out of her throat with each pleasurable thrust.

"The water is wonderful, isn't it?"

He opened his eyes and watched her push away from the wall at her back and move just in front of him. Her slender fingers reached out and tentatively touched the bunched up muscles on his arms. It wasn't so much her touch that stimulated him, but that 'I'm in the mood' look. He remembered it from her little masturbation scene in front of the mirror and it called to mind everything she had done that evening.

Her beautiful red hair was pulled back from her face, banded up high on the crown of her head, and yet the length of it still dipped into the water behind her back. His hand slipped around her slim waist as she floated up against him. Her skin felt like satin against his callused hands. She was so hot and steamy from the bubbling warm temperature of the water. He was sure she couldn't miss the hard evidence of his interest as he turned her about in the water until her back was where his had been, pressed up against the rounded tile wall. He moved in against her soft yielding body, and felt her lips brush across his cheek, along his nose and his shadowed jaw line. He turned his head to capture her lips with his, in a light kiss. He followed that up with a few tiny brushing little butterfly kisses, and wasn't disappointed when he heard the soft urging sighs rumbling from deep in the back of her throat.

He deepened the kiss, needing to taste her; and enjoying the fact that she seemed to want to taste him right back. He smiled at her as he moved back, his hands still touching, caressing the silky skin of her waist. Her eyes were wide, the pupils dilated, glimmering out at him with that lusty expression he had seen in them in the mirror two weeks ago. She was ready for him, and yet he found holding her like this, allowing her fingers to touch his face, trace his eyebrow, run easily through his hair was coaxing a slowly building arousal in her much more satisfying than the animal urgings in his mind that still wanted to tear her panties away from the hot center of her that was riding against his naked thigh.

"If I tell you my fear—"

"I'll make it go away," he told her, and captured her lips once more. This time he deepened the kiss even more, and felt her soft body brush against him as she allowed the buoyancy in the water to rock their bodies together in a light sensual dance. He lured her into a comfort zone, allowing her responses to him to determine if he kissed her urgently and hard, or soft and fleetingly. She felt so delicate and soft in his arms, and the protective instinct that she had somehow stimulated in his mind, warred with his more basic needs. Not that he was a selfish lover, but he was use to initialing and following through—not playing around so heavily in the foreplay department.

Her hands moved over the scars on his back and he stiffened, but her light touch never paused or hesitated. At least not until one of her hands moved into the waistband of his jockey shorts. She caressed his skin there, playing with the treasure tail that ran along his lower belly. Perhaps he should have anticipated it, but really, he had not thought she would want to make love out here in the Jacuzzi where anyone could come upon them—and Raoul, that slimy son-of-a-bitch could watch.

"I see you brought my wine. Shall we have some?" he suggested softly and reached for her wrist, moving her hand away from where it had burrowed even lower and was trying to encircle his cock. He kissed the pulse on her wrist and then the beginning of a pout on her lips.

"There's a camera out here. Someone could be watching—at the very least we could end up with what we do being recorded somewhere."

Her eyes widened. "How do you know?"

"There are Objectvideo decals all over this apartment complex. There is one in the window framing the entranceway, one in the elevator. There is even one on the gate I had to open to get in here by the pool."

Ali's arms encircled his neck and her lips traced and teased his stubble jaw. "Who is Objectvideo—and why should I care?"

Vern laughed softly and could not resist running his hand up along her waist to cup and squeeze her breast. She tossed her head back, resting it against the edge of the bubbling pool, her eyes shimmering with desire.

"Objectvideo is the security company that the city of Barcelona has contracted to monitor the Metro stations as part of this country's "Homeland Security" measures," Vern informed her roughly, than added with a devilish look in his eyes. "Now as for why you should care—"

"Will you think too badly of me if I ask you to kiss me again?" she interrupted, and quite aggressively began to grope him—there really was no other word for it. When a woman's hand went down your jockey shorts, and did the things her fingers were doing—it was damn hard for a man not to agree to her wishes, or remember more appropriate behavior.

"And what if I don't want to share you, my lady?"

She got her kiss, alright, and it was thorough and scorching, but in the back of his mind was the need to get her away from here and the camera. He captured her legs behind the knees and cradled her softness against him as he stepped out of the Jacuzzi with her in his arms.

"Where are we going?"

A sensual smile deepened the grooves around his mouth. Heat swept up over her chest and face, and that made no sense, since she should be feeling cooler after leaving the heat from the Jacuzzi, not hotter. The silence between them stretched out. He just stood there holding her, not saying a word, those dark brown eyes of his washing over her.

Why was he torturing her this way? Did he enjoy seeing her twist in the flames that his touch and that knowing, piratical smile caused her to feel? Was he going to set her on her feet and leave her? Ali was quite sure that she would stay just this aroused for the rest of her life if he did! She caught something in his eyes that made her realized that he was waiting for her lead. He was going to make her ask him!

Those sensual lips beckoned to her and she just knew those searching dark eyes saw right through her, all the way down to the sweet, restless ache that pulsed inside her, where the feral woman waited, impatient, willing and demanding. Damn him! He knew perfectly well how much she wanted him.

She opened her mouth, praying that something coherent would come out. "What do you want, Vern?"

His gaze dropped to her breasts, than swept slowly upward to linger on her lips. "Take a wild guess."

She closed her eyes and took the verbal plunge. "Do you want . . . me?"

The silence was agonizing. She opened her eyes. The naked hunger in his face stole her breath away. He seized the dripping red rope of her hair and twined it around his hand. "Yes," he said. "Can I have you?"

"Yes, please."

"Oh, lady, it's me who needs to say please…."

There! He hadn't rejected her. At least, not yet! She was committed now, hurtling forward into the unknown. Her heart hammered in her chest. He was so unbelievably handsome. She wanted to stroke the elegant planes of his face. She wanted to caress those scars she had felt under that beautiful tattoo and sooth the pulsations of red-tinged, angry energy that she felt emanating from them. What had happened to him? How had he gotten these horrible things? She had seen them raised up on his skin, beneath the ink of his tattoo when he had descended the steps in the Jacuzzi, and she had wanted to reach out and touch them and take away the pain he must have felt.

His arm dropped away from under her knees and her feet touched the cool marble tile. Splashes of scarlet, anger and blood flashed across her dazzled inner vision, like dream images. She almost gasped aloud. What did they mean? A prickle of unease mixed into the shimmering, giddy alchemy of her sexual excitement. Danger! It had to be a side effect of the way he made her feel, she told herself. He had not rejected her yet! She would not let herself panic and run. She wanted this too badly.

He did the strangest thing after they entered her apartment. He took a towel off the rack where it hung in her kitchen and tossed it over her microwave. She started to ask him what in the world that had been all about, but the very brief butterfly kiss he gave her, just before removing the cork from the bottle of Bruno Giacosa and poured them two glasses, made the answer to that question seem very unimportant.

She let out a startled squeak as he seized her, hauling her up and onto the counter beside the two wine glasses. He reached for one, handing it to her. The arm that held her around her hips tightened around her trembling body, as he stared into her eyes. His look was so fierce and intent, as if he waited for something. She brought the glass of wine to her lips and took a drink, tilting her head back, exposing her throat—and it was then that she felt his warm, wet mouth move in to nibble at the swallowing movements of her throat.

Finished with the wine, she set it down next to his full glass and met his heated, penetrating gaze. She felt like he was devouring her—as if he could read her mind. Maybe he could. She didn't care. She could hardly feel any more naked to him then she did now. She stared back into his eyes and wiggled against him suggestively. He moved in closer to her, and her legs widened to accommodate him. His hands moved under her ass, cupping it as he lifted her against him to carry her into the living room.

Again, he did the strangest thing. He took a fashion magazine she had setting on her sofa table and placed it over the clock that sat on the mantle over her fireplace. He dropped down on her overly soft sofa with the seven large pillows and she found herself astride him. She loved the hard solidity of his body beneath her. She touched his chest tentatively with her fingertips, her breath fluttering. His muscles were firm and springy. The heat from his body scorched her. He had to be running a fever. His breathing was as rapid as her own when she looped her arm behind his neck and touched her lips to his.

Vern made a harsh sound deep in his throat, and his arms tightened around her, pressing her closer. That little butterfly kiss she had bestowed upon him was permission for the real kiss to begin, a hot devouring kiss that she fell into headlong. She was intoxicated by his voracious energy and the delightful taste of him. Surprisingly the tobacco scent took a backseat to the warm, leathery and slightly musky male smell that invaded her nose. His jaw was scratchy and rough and his sensual mouth was eager, bold and so delicious.

She wanted to writhe against him, crawl inside his skin, touch everything; taste everything. He was so strong, bursting with energy, and she ached with a hunger for it. The calluses on his hands scratched at the delicate skin on her hips as he buried his hands into the side of her panties and slowly slid them down off her ass. He eased her legs gently apart and finished removing the panties, one leg at a time. One arm moved around her waist, holding her, while his other hand covered her red mound, his fingertips brushing across the sensitive flesh of her inner thighs.

She pressed her face against his neck, acutely aware of every feathery stroke against her thighs. The path of his gentle, questing fingers was traced with light and heat. A sudden burst of emotion caused her clench her legs tightly, trapping his hand between them. He wrapped his hand around the long rope of her hair and tilted her face back so he could look down into her eyes.

"I won't hurt you, Ali," he whispered, adding, "You want me."

Ali gave him a tiny nod, as much as her trapped hair would allow. He unwound his hand from it, and his hand dropped back to her waist. Ali's thighs unclenched and he parted her legs just wide enough so that the tip of his long finger brushed against her most sensitive spot. The hot sunburst of sensation made her gasp and jerk in his arms.

He laughed softly, low in his throat at her shocked expression, trailing his fingertip tenderly in teasing little circles. His eyes were sparkling with satisfaction. "You're already wet—and ready for me," he whispered. "Do I make love to you here and now or do we use your bed?"

Her body betrayed her, quivering with eagerness. "Vern, this is going too fast for—"

"You love it." He cut off her panicked protests with a fierce, marauding kiss and his fingers moved boldly against her. Touching her where no one had caressed her, not even during the three terrible botched episodes she had endured with other men. She was so afraid this would turn out the same way. And yet, she had not felt this way with those other men—none of them had done much more than kiss her once or twice, squeeze her breast, then mount her like some rabbit in a speed race.

Besides, his hand was slow, sure and wickedly clever, and his tongue thrust into her mouth as he stroked the pad of his thumb around her clitoris, tracing sensual, lazy circles was making her feel so dazzled and lost. The hand around her waist grabbed her hand and pressed it against his rigid cock, clearly outlined against his jockey shorts. She needed no other incentive at the moment. She slipped her fingers beneath the waist band and closed her fingers around his smooth, steely shaft.

He cupped the nape of her neck and dragged her face to his for another rough, plundering kiss. He rocked against her, and her hand freed him. He pressed her down against his erection as his hand found the rope of her hair once more, and wound it about his hand. His mouth moved to devour hers. His hands were insistent, his movements so arousing, that she had to squeeze her eyes shut, dig her fingernails into his shoulders and hold on to him for dear life—so she didn't fly apart.

She squirmed against his cock, trying to mount him, but found the angle she was at made it impossible. Instead she kissed him back hungrily. He started to vibrate with silent laughter and she pulled away to find his eyes gleaming at her with smug masculine triumph.

She tried to glare at him. "You're not playing fair," she said shakily. "This is all your fault."

His eyes narrowed. "What's my fault?"

"This!" She made a frantic gesture at their entwined bodies. "It's your fault, for turning me on, making me lose control!" She swatted him as he pulled her close for another kiss. "¡Pare eso! Dios Del Oh. Por favor, Vern!"

"But you want it," he coaxed, his voice husky and seductive. "I love the way you respond. Go ahead—slide down on my cock, right here and now. You can ride me until you come. Do me however you like—hard and fast, or sweet and slow. Whatever you want."

She stared with helpless fascination into his seductive, molten brown eyes. She felt flushed and wanton, unbearably tempted to take him at his word—and the devil could take the consequences.

Ali brushed a soft kiss against his mouth and came rather clumsily off his lap and to her feet. She extended her hand to him and he jumped up off the sofa, a hand flicking down to pull his jockey shorts back up over his hard on. The bedroom, it was going to be, but first she needed to use the bathroom, put her diaphragm in—with plenty of spermicide foam.

While Ali was in the bathroom, Vern disabled the video cam. It was unlikely that Raoul or Roy had entered his apartment if he had not responded to their knock, but both had keys. Raoul did seem to get a shit eating grin across his face every time he ordered Vern to make Ali his girlfriend. It would be just like that perv to pop a bag of popcorn, push the zoom on the camera and sit back to watch.

When Ali came out of the bathroom Vern was eying her ceiling fan, then the mirror above her dresser, then the ceiling fan. She paused watching him, finally gathering the courage to ask, "What are you doing?"

"I'm just judging the angle and distance," he replied matter-of-factly. He approached her and placed both his large hands on her ass. "Your bottom drives me crazy. Turn around, right here. In front of that mirror. I want to look at it."

Suddenly terribly self-conscious, she tried to discourage him. "I . . . but it's, ah, too big. Nicolao at work once gave me a _Buns of Steel_ video at Christmas as a joke, or at least I thought he was joking. . . "

"Nicalao might want a scrawny ass. I like a round, beautiful ass like yours. Now, please—humor me, excite me—do it. Turn around. Do it now!"

She did not miss the command hidden beneath the lazy sensual tone. And who was she anyways to say what the man liked or disliked. He said he liked her ass! Well, it was time to flaunt anything at him that she knew he liked. She turned her back to him.

He clasped her waist and pushed her forward gently. She swayed and caught herself on the low dresser. She stared straight into the mirror, back arched, bottom sticking out. Her face was bright pink.

Vern smiled; a hot, predatory smile that made the muscles of her thighs clench. The pose he had put her in was an explicit invitation. His hands slide lower, worshiping every curve, caressing her inner thighs and brushing boldly over the silky curls between her legs. He pulled her up, and back against him, his arm tight around her belly, his erection pressed against her bottom. "You make it so hard to do the right thing."

She struggled to concentrate. "The right thing? What is that?"

"I shouldn't be touching you like this," he growled. "I can be a dickhead sometimes."

"Wait a minutes. I seduced you—remember? I'm the one who took off my clothing first and stepped into that hot tub."

"That's not the point."

She lifted her chin and stared at him in the mirror. "Do you want me or not?" She held her breath, suddenly trembling anew with fear. She had been so sure they had solved that ageless question in the living room twenty minutes ago.

"I want you." He spun her around and his smile was slow, sexy and merciless. "Your have a lot more guts than I gave you credit for, Ali. Why don't you surprise me some more. Tell me how you want me to make love to you. Tell me how you want to make love to me."

Her eyes dropped. She didn't know the first thing to say. She didn't have enough experience to know the answers. He pulled her against him and she hid her face against his chest. He didn't feel like he was losing interest just because she wasn't willing to answer him. She was sure of it, when he started to press tender kisses against her neck and along her jaw.

"We were discussing, what was it? Oh, yeah, if I want you and all the sexual possibilities that can entail," he mused. "Shall we end the discussion right now? Would you rather I show you?"

Cold fear tightened in her belly. She could see their faces; the faces of those three men. Two of them had at least been kind enough not to stick around afterward to insult her. But Joaquin had not found taking her trembling body satisfying enough and he had been sure to voice all her faults, quite vocally_. 'Face it, Alicia! You were not even worth my time. You're a lousy lay.'_ Those had been his finally words, after he had voiced his frustration at how long she took, how difficult she was.

"Vern, why don't I show you?" She was grasping at straws, looking for a savior. Ali thought that perhaps if he allowed her to initiate what they did—like he had in the pool and on the sofa in the living room.

"The rules are clear," he said. "Ladies first. It's an international law."

"But I'm not, ah . . . " she trailed off, miserable.

He gazed searchingly into her face. "I thought this is what you wanted," he said slowly. "Are you having second thoughts?"

"¡Dios Del Oh! It's just that I . . .it's not that simple. I'm not . . . very responsive, and I don't want to bore you, and I get so anxious when I'm under pressure, which makes me tense up even more, so I was hoping we could skip that part and try some other things, and that way maybe I'll have a chance—"

"Ali. Shhh." He cut off her anxious babbling with a kiss. When he lifted his head, she was dazed and breathless. "No pressure. And believe me, Ali, I won't get bored. I really have a very long attention spam. You have no idea—"

"But I—"

He covered her mouth with his, and all her doubts and fears melted into a vortex of tender confusion. His lips were velvety, coaxing and insistent. His tongue flicked against hers, and he deepened the kiss as his fingers brushed over her soft red thatch of hair. She pressed herself against his hand, and his fingers parted her tenderly.

"Oh yeah. That's beautiful," he murmured. "I don't know why you think you're not responsive—there's nothing wrong with you. You're ready for me. Feel this. You're almost there, right now and all I did was kiss you. You're like hot, melting caramel"

He pressed his thumb against the hot throbbing glow of pleasure at the top of her cleft while his fingers delved inside her. She hid her face against his chest as her body moved on its own violation. She thrust herself against his hand. Pleasure swelled, unbearably sweet. She trapped his hand between her thighs and pressed a hand down on top of it, her muscles clenching and releasing. The feeling grew, and began to crest.

"Vern. ¡Dios Del Oh! Don't . . . don't . . ."

"I won't leave you," he soothed, "I'm planning to watch every wonderful second of this."

Something unbelievably glorious was gathering inside her. She would have panicked, if it wasn't for the warmth of his skin against her, the cadence of his steady breathing, and the fact that he slid his tongue into her mouth, as his fingers moved deeper, and this thumb became more insistent.

It overtook her at last. The world dissolved into pulsing, blazing heat. When she finally opened her eyes, they were lying on her bed, and a sweep of her eyes told her Vern had shed his jockey shorts. Her body still thrummed with residual pleasure, but the sweet, rippling shivers slowly gave way to a relaxed glow. She wanted to croon and purr, but when she cuddled closer, she felt the unyielding heat of his erection against her belly, and remembered that they were far from finished.

She reached down, and stroked him, before struggling up onto her knees. "It's your turn, Vern," she said shyly. "Do you want me to, um . . . "

He jerked up on his elbows, opened his mouth to speak, and closed it. All his confident swagger seem to desert him for a moment, and he looked almost boyish as he met her eyes. "Uh . . . that's one of those is-the-Pope-Catholic type questions, Ali."

"I take it that's a yes?" She raised her eyebrows up and down.

He flopped down onto his back and put his hands behind his head. "I am at your mercy. Do with me as you will."

His skin was just as soft as she remembered. Sliding her hand over his thickness, she thought he felt like living velvet. The dim glow of light from the lamp on her dresser gave her the first real close up view of the burn scars that furrowed his hip and part of his right thigh. She ran her hand over the ravaged flesh. An ache swelled inside her for his suffering, bound together with tenderness, and anger, and the urge to give him more pleasure than he had ever dreamed possible.

She pulled the band holding her hair free as she clambered over him. He watched her, remembering this part—after all, it was his favorite—she arched her back, and ran her fingers through the long silky length, teasing body into the molten strands. She was remarkable; the sexiest damn woman in the world. He held up his face to a soft rain of kisses and his body trembled with the effort of staying still.

She played with him, discovering his body with her hands and her lips. He squeezed his eyes shut and shuddered violently when she finally crawled up over him and straddled his hips. He knew what he wanted and he had waited long enough to get it. He lifted her up and bounced her back, then came to his knees, poised between her legs. He took himself in hand, and pressed the blunt tip of his cock against her. He stroked her, moistening himself. The gentle contact was as tender as a kiss. He nudged inside her, relentlessly pushing deeper with short, sliding thrusts.

Ali gave a loud moan and he stopped instantly. "Are you all right?" he asked, anxiously. "We can stop . . . "

"Oh, don't you dare," she gasped, giving him a nasty look. He chuckled and pushed onward.

She moved her hips to match the gilding movements of his body and felt the throbbing fullness of him drive into her. They both cried out. It was like falling off a cliff, a moment of shock that seemed inevitability. He knew that this was too good, he was too turned on—but he still had to maintain some control.

He slid his arm beneath the arch of her back, pulling her tighter. Her shocked gasps were punctuating each of his heavy thrusts. He was riding her too hard; she was too small and tight for this, but he couldn't slow down, didn't want to ease off. She had teased and tempted him into this, and now he was all thundering blood and plumping muscles—he had lost the will to judge, along with his wits.

None of that really matter, however, because Ali was not gasping out loud because she was in pain. Far from it, she was beginning to feel that wondrous gathering of pleasure again. It sat low and tense, like a throb in her belly that slowly flamed across her erogenous zones until she cried out with delight, arched like a bow—and triggered a white-hot orgasm in Vern.

_Rejection_?

Ah, Ali thought dreamily, it was no longer her fear! Romeo's Girl be damned, there wasn't a single word scrawled across that abandoned building's graffiti walls that would name her fear. For suddenly—Vern's promise to her had come true. He had taken that fear away from her. It was no more. The compulsion to solve the riddles, to learn the answers to "the Design" were the very least of her concerns—in fact, it all seemed rather silly to her at the moment.

Lying on her side, with her legs still entwined with his, she ran her slender fingers through his soft, frosted hair, and asked him about the burned scars on his back and side, and he whispered his replies to her—his voice coming out in violent spasms, and calming sighed. She didn't try to justify his actions, nor did she condemn them. She simply listened and accepted that because of his carelessness, and his wish to leave early so he could watch a soccer game on TV, he had forgotten to check the Argon tanks gauges at the construction site. Instead, he had left early—leaving his fellow workers in a situation that only took one spark—a hammer hitting a nail—to cause the tanks to explode and the building to become engulf in flames.

_Fire!_

It had been Vern's fear. Fire had been the answer to the riddle that had been written on the wall of the abandoned building in Toronto. When he had answered that riddle, and seen the word, he had acted upon it—just as "The Design" had hoped—without reason, and without remorse. Having purged the fear from him with Sara Novak's death, "The Design had no more hold on him. And because of Vern, it would have no more hold on her as well.


End file.
